Growing Up
by mazeru
Summary: All the lives he took, all those meaningless lives, suddenly started resounding with meaning through that one single death. A child forced to turn into an adult within mere seconds.


Things were not going quite as planned. In fact, they were going all wrong.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Daryl was beginning to think that maybe he should really start getting used to it. After all, nothing ever seemed to go right whenever going up against the Undertakers or anyone else involved with Ouma Shu was concerned. So when the two endlaves crashed against each other and he realised that the damn crippled girl managed to land a hit on him - he couldn't help but think, deep down, it was how it would always be. No matter how much he'd struggle. No matter how much he'd try proving himself.

So even if there was a faint trace of shock when his endlave shook from the impact, he couldn't really say that he was surprised. And with that thought, cursing the entire world and all the people he's ever met, he lost consciousness, flickering status screens of his endlave turning black, vision fading.

He never relied on people. In fact, he kept absolutely everyone in contempt. Commoners, useless maggots, incompetent retards. He was the one capable of doing his work right. He was perfect. High-born, good-looking, confident, and strong. It's how he saw himself, how he thought himself to be.

And then, he encountered the Undertakers. And for the first time, he actually felt the bitter taste of defeat. A spoiled, sheltered kid who always had everything handed to him- it came as a shock. A revolution that turned his world upside down. That's when something snapped - or perhaps, there was always something weird with his head. Looking down at others, not caring for others' lives (in fact, he treated them as toys, making killing others a game of sorts), just stepping ahead; over dead bodies and over others' dignity. A child forever detached from reality in his sense of own superiority. His whole mindset was based on that conviction. So the moment this fundamental, personal truth took a hit, it all started crumbling. And if someone thought he was a bloodthirsty bastard before... well, they had front-row seats to witness the awakening of a true beast.

He lived only for the sake of killing now. For the sake of proving to himself rather than to others (after all, he couldn't care less what they thought, he was the one right anyway) that his convictions weren't wrong. That he was still the same Daryl. That he was still strong, independent, proud, and able to trample down any obstacle.

And all that flew out of the window together with his consciousness now. An odd sense of resignation as the last flickers of light vanished from his vision, just the irregular pulse of his heart and stinging feeling of the virus spreading through his body lingering a moment more before the world around him disappeared.

When he came to, he wasn't piloting the endlave anymore. The thick cables going from the hole in his chest were unplugged, and he woke up to the feeling of crystals falling off his body, and an arm around him, pulling him along. Was he walking? His legs felt numb as he was dragged like a puppet. His head snapped up to look at who dared lay hands on him, and his eyes widened in shock.

After the events of the past weeks, hardly anything could surprise him. But when he saw it was Rowan who was holding him, leading him towards the exit, to get him out of the building as he assumed (was it collapsing? The floor kept shaking and swaying, as though someone cut off the fundaments), none of his usual insults came. He only managed to utter a simple "You?", not even bothering (not even being able to) hide the shock from his face or voice.

No reply came, though, as they reached the elevator and Rowan hit the control panel, making the door open before proceeding by not-so-subtly throwing Daryl in. The painful impact of his back hitting the hard metal wall brought him partially back to his senses and out of the stupor surprise brought onto him, and he was already glaring daggers at the older man, fuming silently at the rough treatment. There were footsteps in the corridor they just came from, but the blonde barely registered them as Rowan spoke up finally - and yet another surprise was served to him that day.

"If you get another chance," the footsteps were a lot closer by now, at least two men chasing them, apparently, "be more kind to people!"

Rowan turned to face him, features hardened in determination (desperation?), sweat trickling down his face in small beads from the effort of carrying a certain unconscious young man all the way from the endlave cockpit to the emergency exit. "Deep down, you were a nice guy, Daryl!"

He turned away, hitting the panel once more, and as the door started closing and he realised the footsteps are right by where they were now did it hit him what the other was going to do. He stirred, his body tensing up, eyes widening once more in realisation, but he was too slow to move, meeting closed door, hands placed against them helplessly as sounds of shooting reached him from the other side.

He gave up his life to let him escape. After all that he did and said, he sacrificed himself to let him live on. All of a sudden that fact weighted on him. His palms still against the elevator door, twitching slightly as he stared at the line that refused to part.

Even in moment of defeat, he never experienced a storm of emotions like that. A raging cyclone building up from the deepest depths of his heart, numbing out all around him. The cold metal under his fingers. The few last shots on the other side. The heavy thump of a body hitting the elevator door.

He was helpless. Weak. Always safe in the confines of an endlave, using the giant robotic limbs when moving, using the guns when killing. Never once did he actually use his body. Staring at his hands, he realised it now.

He was weak.

He was spoiled.

And he was about to feel consequence of all of his mistakes ever.

Pain came next, not that strong yet, merely a sting somewhere deep in his chest when memories came to him. Memories of killing people. Memories of humiliating people. Memories of all the things big and small that he did wrong.

And among all that, there was Rowan, standing out most prominently. The guy he always insulted. Treated like crap. Took out all of his childish tantrums on. And that guy just endured it. Begrudgingly, with a sour face, and a look of resignation in his eyes, but he did. Whether it was orders or not - in the end, they were in it together, weren't they? Comrades not quite by choice, but comrades nonetheless. Even in this mad place, they were on the same team again.

Why? It seemed not to matter anymore. With those last words from Rowan, it ceased to matter.

"If I take you out, I can be myself! I can be Daryl the Butcher!"

Those words, screamed out in heat of his last battle- his shoulders shook with a suppressed laughter, head hanging low, hands curling into fists against the cold metal door. Door that wouldn't budge. He raised a hand, pressing a button on the control panel inside the elevator, feeling it stir into artificial life and move, heading down.

Be himself? What sort of bullshit was that? He stumbled, back hitting the wall again, and he let his body slump against the rail.

All those battles, all those kills, all those games and hunts he was so engrossed in, what were they?

All the lives he took, all those meaningless lives, suddenly started resounding with meaning through that one single death.

A death for his self.

He let out a single sob.

A child forced to turn into an adult within mere seconds.

"Rowan... you bastard."


End file.
